Espionage and Assasination with Michael Collins' Intelligence Unit: With the Dublin Brigade (12 page)

The day after my escape from Nemo I was instructed by a senior member of the intelligence staff to verify a report which had been received concerning Nemo. It was reported that he and his men lunched in the Ormond Restaurant on the quay, close to Dublin Castle.

I was badly shaken by my experience of the day before and I refused to obey this order, as I knew I would be recognized by them. I said I would go with a party of Volunteers and attack them, but that I would not go unarmed and alone, and become a voluntary victim of their campaign.

My refusal greatly angered this officer, and to bring home to me my insubordination, he arranged with the assistant D/I to have me transferred to a new office we had just secured over a Picture House in Great Brunswick Street.

I felt I was in disgrace, but I was satisfied that I had acted logically.

That afternoon we transferred a duplicate set of papers and some revolvers to a new office. With two separate offices, and duplicates of all papers, we could not be completely disorganized in the event of a raid on one of them.

In the new office I was unpacking the guns when a small automatic caught my attention. I was looking it over with great interest when suddenly, with a loud report, it went off.

I was dumbfounded, and hastily laying it down I felt a terrible pain in my left hand, which was pouring blood.

My companions broke out into a violent storm of abuse for my carelessness, fearing for the safety of the office which we had only just acquired. Only one lad, Paddy, did not blame me, but rushing out, brought me back a glass of brandy, which I immediately drank with great appreciation.

One of the boys got a cab from a nearby hazard to bring me to hospital. I was in great pain. I wrapped a handkerchief round my hand, and getting into the cab we drove up Brunswick Street, where, to my further dismay, the horse stumbled and fell.

I had to get out of the cab, while a curious crowd quickly gathered. I was a conspicuous figure, holding my hand in a now scarlet handkerchief. I am sure they connected me with an ambush.

I was most uneasy, fearing every moment that the troops would come on the scene. But with so many willing helpers the horse was soon pulled up onto his legs again and we proceeded on our way.

When I entered the accident ward of the hospital a doctor quickly put a first-aid dressing on my wound. As soon as he was finished he told me to clear off, as the military might be along any time.

‘Wait now, a minute,' he said, ‘give me some name or other. We are compelled to keep a register of people treated for wounds and are supposed to detain them pending the arrival of the authorities.'

I invented a name and address, and being urged again by the doctor to hurry away I lost no time in obeying him.

That evening I received a message that I was not to go near any of our offices till my wound was healed. Entering any one of them with a bandaged hand, I might draw attention to them.

I suffered great pain and had great difficulty in getting my wound dressed. I had to keep indoors for about a week, as to be held up by a patrol would be fatal.

Every second or third day, dodging any military lorries I met, I made my way to a friendly doctor, Dr John Ryan, who lived in Gardiner Street.

He dressed my wound, first running a steel rod through the hand to keep the wound open, as it had turned septic. This caused me excruciating agony, and as I have always been terrified of pain the ordeal tried me sorely.

After a week I had him put a small dressing over the wound, and putting the injured hand in my pocket (ignoring his instructions about carrying my arm in a sling), I returned to duty.

Joe, Jimmy and I had retired to bed in the dispensary as usual on the night of Holy Thursday, 1921.

During the early hours of the morning we were awakened by loud noises outside. Peeping out through the curtains we were alarmed to see lorry loads of troops drawn up in the street.

Just outside our window a large tank was stationed. This sight quite overwhelmed us. Glued to the spot and shivering, undressed, we watched the soldiers. They were driving iron stakes into the ground, and putting barbed wire entanglements across the street. Then a field kitchen was driven up.

Now we knew! An investment was taking place. They were closing in our area preparatory to combing out every house in it.

Filled with consternation, we hurriedly dressed ourselves, and Joe went to see whether it would be possible for us yet to make our way out at the back. He returned to tell us there was a sentry in the lane.

From our bedroom, we could hear someone being halted. We listened to the voices. He was a baker going to work. They were detaining him.

It was now five o'clock. Curfew was over. We held a whispered consultation. We agreed that our only chance of escape was to try to make a get-away from the back. As it was, we were trapped and had to take our chance.

We decided that if we were caught we would try to bluff, saying we were milkmen and had to be out early. We left our guns behind to be able to play our part.

Noiselessly we opened the back gate and peering up the lane we saw the Tommy standing on duty,
with his back to us
. There was a chance.

The other end of the lane was a cul-de-sac, and without making a sound we tiptoed to the wall, hoping to God the sentry would not turn round.

We crossed the wall, and found ourselves in a back garden. We crouched down, waiting to hear a challenge.

None came.

After that, with hope in our hearts, we crossed several other walls until we came to an alleyway which brought us out onto the North Circular Road.

On the road, not a hundred yards away, we saw three tenders of Auxiliaries. They had been raiding a house and had not yet left it, so we made our way in the opposite direction.

We had not gone very far when we heard the cars coming after us. At that moment a hall-door opened and a postman asked us the time. Joe seized his opportunity. Walking up to the door to answer the question, we saw him push the postman before him into the hall and shut the door after him.

Jimmy and I were now alone, and we hurried down the first side street we met and turned into a laneway. My heart was beating at a terrible speed, and, sure that we had been seen, we stood together listening for the sound of the approaching cars.

Then we heard them pass by, continuing on their way.

Exulting, we waited until Joe came along and joined us, when we made our way to my home where we enjoyed a hearty breakfast.

As soon as we had finished, we set out again to discover what was happening round the dispensary. We learned that they had drawn a cordon round the whole vicinity. The procedure was as usual. All the men in the houses were brought out and questioned and scrutinized by their intelligence men. Many Volunteers were captured in this way. During the three days that the troops remained in possession, every house was ransacked, and in some stables which were used as dumps by the Squad, large quantities of arms and ammunition were discovered, including a dump of Jimmy's.

These seizures greatly crippled us, as our supplies of ammunition and hand-grenades were very limited, and it had become well-nigh impossible to smuggle fresh supplies into the country.

When the investment was lifted and the troops had departed to repeat their activities in another area, we made our way cautiously to the dispensary.

To our joy and comfort we found old John safe in the house and quite undisturbed, just as we always found him on our return each evening. We had had no hope but that he had been arrested or shot on the discovery of the box full of arms in our room. To our surprise we learned, in reply to our questions, while as usual he volunteered no opinion, that for some unaccountable reason the dispensary had not been visited. It was the only building in the whole area to escape the search.

The house next to the dispensary (which was on the outside edge of the invested area) was used as their headquarters by the military during their three days' occupation.

In late April 1921 I was instructed one evening by the assistant D/I to report to the Plaza Hotel in Gardiner's Row. This building was being used as the offices of a trade union body, and one of the offices was now our brigade headquarters.

When I walked into the room I saw several staff officers assembled. Among them was the director of intelligence, Michael Collins.

I knew Michael by sight, but this was the first occasion on which I met him face to face. He was sitting at a table and he gave me a friendly nod when I reported to him.

I felt very important to be in such company, but at the same time the presence of Michael completely overawed me. I was very vexed with myself not to be able to be at my ease, as I was most anxious to make a good impression.

He told me that the superintendent of the Corporation abattoir (who was also a Volunteer officer) had reported to him that an armoured car called to the abattoir each morning at six o'clock to escort supplies of meat to the military barracks.

‘I want you to go to the superintendent's house,' he said, ‘and observe the movements of the crew, and see if there is any possibility of capturing the car.'

Seán MacEoin was a prisoner in Mountjoy Jail. He was a fine and chivalrous soldier, having conducted the campaign in Longford with brilliant success and great humanity. But he had been captured after an ambush, and was awaiting his court-martial at which he was certain to be sentenced to be hanged. Michael Collins was determined to rescue him, and with the help of an armoured car there was a chance. I was to take up residence in the superintendent's house and to make my observations over several mornings.

The next night shortly before curfew I went to the house. The superintendent's wife, Mrs Lynch, was expecting me. Her husband, the Volunteer, was ‘on the run' and very much wanted by the authorities, so that he was unable to sleep at home. The house was raided for him from time to time, which added to the precariousness of my position.

My hostess welcomed me warmly. She made me acquainted with her two young children, and showed me over the house. From the drawing-room window, which faced onto the abattoir, she pointed out the position usually occupied by the car.

It was moonlight, and, while paying due attention to what Mrs Lynch was telling me, my eyes wandered round looking for a possible way of escape in the event of a raid on the house. To my horror I saw something else – a sight calculated to strike far greater fear to my soul than the approach of any number of armed men. Below me, scurrying about in the moonlight, were shoals of rats!

I withdrew hastily from the window, making up my mind that, if that were my only way out, I would cheerfully allow myself to be murdered in my bed.

I was then shown to my room, which looked most comfortable and inviting, and after an excellent supper I retired for the night. Mrs Lynch promised to call me in good time so that I could watch the arrival of the armoured car in the morning.

She was as good as her word and, hurriedly dressing myself, I went down and took up my position by the drawing-room window. Kneeling down, I could see, through the lace fringe at the bottom of the blind, all that was going on.

I saw the arrival of the armoured car. It accompanied two lorries, and while it pulled up exactly on the spot opposite the window, only a dozen paces away, which Mrs Lynch had pointed out to me, the lorries were driven on up the yard to be loaded with the meat.

I saw the door of the car opened. Four soldiers got out. They were dressed in dungarees and each had a revolver on the holster of his belt. Lighting cigarettes, they stood chatting.

It was a double-turreted car and I knew the crew consisted of six men. On getting out, one of the soldiers had locked in the other two by fastening a small padlock on the door.

Morning after morning at six o'clock I took up my position behind the window and saw this performance repeated. The lorries, conducted by the armoured car, made several journeys with their cargoes of meat to and from the various barracks. While they were away I had my breakfast and made friends with the two children of whom I had grown very fond.

Every morning I made my observations and every day I reported them to Liam.

After a week I was summoned to another meeting at brigade headquarters. On this occasion we met at Barry's Hotel, a few doors from the Plaza, where to my surprise and gratification I again saw Michael Collins.

We sat around a table. Michael asked me to tell him what I had seen and what my opinion was in view of my observations.

I described the arrival of the car, the several journeys it made and the conduct of the crew. I produced a sketch of my own, showing the position usually occupied by the car when in the abattoir.

They heard me out without interruption.

When I had finished, Michael Collins addressed me.

‘I take it from your report you consider it possible to capture the car?'

‘I do, Sir,' said I, ‘but our success depends upon the exact arrival of our men at the opportune moment, which may only occur very occasionally.'

I had already explained to the meeting that during the dozen or so times I had had the car under observation only on one occasion did the whole crew leave it. Until such another occasion arose we could not capture it. When it did arise, it would be necessary for our men to be at hand to seize it instantly.

This seemed to satisfy Michael.

‘Since they left it once, they will probably do so again,' he said.

He then addressed the others in turn.

He first questioned Pat McCrea.

Pat is a County Wicklow man, about forty years of age, an older man than most of us. He was out in the Larkin Strike and took part in the Rising, and was always to be found wherever there was any hard fighting to be done. Of a gentle disposition and charming manner, he endeared himself to everyone who ever had the pleasure of serving with him. Meeting him, it would not occur to you that he was a soldier, on account of the mildness of his address. Only, if you were observant, you might notice a directness in his glance which corrected your impression of his entirely peaceful disposition. He was our crack driver and took part in practically every action in Dublin.

In reply to Michael Collins's question, Pat said that while he had never driven a car of this make – a Peerless – he was sure he could get it to go.

I could see that his assurance was quite enough for Michael, who immediately proceeded with the rest of the business.

Two gunners had to be found, a spare driver and two other Volunteers to make up a complete crew.

Michael then unfolded his plans.

The car was to be captured by a swift and, so far as possible, silent attack. This was necessary as the Marlboro' Barracks was close at hand and no alarm must be raised. The soldiers were to be held up while the car was driven off. The car would proceed from the abattoir to the North Circular Road, where two Volunteers would join it. These two men were my brother Emmet (whom I had introduced into the Volunteers on his return from the European War) and Joe Leonard, my friend of the dispensary.

Emmet and Joe would be ready waiting, each dressed in one of Emmet's British officer uniforms. They were to be taken into the car, which was then to be driven direct to Mountjoy Jail.

Michael described in detail the plan for gaining admission to the prison. He instructed Emmet and Joe in the steps they were to take – in their role of British officers obeying orders from Dublin Castle – to secure the custody of Seán MacEoin. He produced duplicate keys which he had had made from the wax impressions he had received from friendly warders inside the prison.

I listened with the keenest interest to this recital, observing with the greatest admiration the way in which Michael Collins considered every detail, explored every aspect of the job and overlooked no possible flaw.

Another meeting of the key men was held the following night, when final arrangements were made and last instructions given.

I returned to my post behind the blind.

Our plans for concerted action were now complete. The Volunteers, who were to hold up the soldiers and to seize the car, were to gather unostentatiously in the neighbourhood of the abattoir. One man was to lie concealed in a spot from which he could see the window of one of the rooms in the superintendent's house. From my vantage point I was to watch for the first occasion when all six men would leave the car. When this occurred I was to give a signal – I would raise the blind in that room which was visible to the waiting Volunteer. The moment he saw the blind go up, he would signal to the others who would appear at once upon the scene of action.

All of us were in our respective positions on the following morning.

But only four of the soldiers left the car and, greatly disappointed, I saw there was again no chance. As soon as the car had moved off, I slipped out by the back, and getting on my bicycle I made my way to headquarters. The waiting Volunteers, seeing me depart, moved away, knowing the job was off for that morning.

On the next morning, 14th May 1921, we made a slight change in our plans.

As usual, I was at my observation post at 6 a.m. When the car arrived I formed the opinion that the crew were in a not over-zealous mood. They seemed to be less vigilant. That was my impression.

As soon as they drove off escorting the first delivery of meat, I made my way on my bicycle to a stable in Abbey Street which was used as a rendezvous and place-of-waiting by the Active Service Unit.

Here were assembled all the men on the job waiting for my message. Michael Collins was with them and I made my report.

MacEoin's days were now numbered and Michael, fretted by the continual delays and disappointments, was most anxious that the attempt should be made at once. I told him I was optimistic and thought there would be a chance later in the morning when the armoured car returned. I based my hopes on that appearance of carelessness in the mood of the crew.

Hurrying back to the house, once more I took up my position behind the blind.

I was not long there when I saw the car return. It drew up outside the window. I saw four of the crew get out and wander away through the slaughter houses.

They had not locked the door of the car!

I became excited and hopeful. With my eyes glued to the door, I wished with my whole being to see the remaining two soldiers step out.

For a whole ten minutes I waited.

Then I saw the door swing open. It had happened! I had got my wish!

On stepping out, they lit cigarettes, and one of them shut the door, locking the padlock and putting the key in his pocket.

Nearly suffocating with excitement, I rushed into the room from which my signal was to be given, and
I raised the blind.

That was the most awful decision I have ever had to make. Those few moments were the longest of my life, while I waited to see the approach of our men up the avenue which led to the abattoir. From that window I could not see the car. It was possible that during those two minutes the soldiers had got in again and I would see the massacre of my comrades, men whose places could never be filled, and feel myself responsible for their loss.

While I waited, I shouted to Mrs Lynch to get the children out of the way. We had arranged together that she should take them to a back bedroom, where they would be safe from stray bullets in the event of any firing.

Then I saw two Volunteers pass by the window. I recognized Tom Kehoe.

Dashing back to my post of observation at the other window, I was in time to see the two soldiers with their hands up, while our men were taking their revolvers. All my anxiety was now over. I was full of joy and relief.

The other Volunteers were scattering through the buildings, searching for the rest of the crew, who had gone to watch the animals being slaughtered.

Our men were getting ready to take over the armoured car. From my window I watched Pat McCrea, with a benign expression on his face, struggling to get his legs into a pair of dungarees. The other members of our crew were doing the same, while the soldiers were kept covered. They had brought dungarees in parcels, ready. They were dressing up for their new parts. I saw Pat take the cap off one of the Tommies and put it on his own head. It was too small for him. He jammed it on his head anyhow, so that it had a rakish look, while he still struggled to get his foot out through the leg of the dungarees. I found myself laughing as I watched him, and I waited to see him search the soldiers for the key of the padlock and, finding it, unlock the door of the car.

I had now seen enough.

I ran upstairs to Mrs Lynch. I told her the good news. Then I locked her and the children into one of the bedrooms, so that, when the authorities arrived and the house was searched, she would not be suspected of any complicity, but would appear to be but one more of our victims.

At that moment I heard several shots ring out. It was necessary to be off.

Jumping on my bicycle, I hurried to the house where Joe and Emmet were waiting. It was round the corner in the North Circular Road. They were ready, dressed in the British uniforms. I had just time to notice that they looked very well in them.